Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 7

Mullah Oxley opened his mouth so wide when he laughed that Khaled Ibn Azziz could practically see down his filthy gullet, and what he laughed at was filthier still. Oxley was seated at the head of the banquet table, surrounded by high-ranking Black Robes, with Ibn Azziz on his immediate right. A place of honor, but with an abhorrent view.

“Smile, Khaled,” said Oxley, head of the Black Robes. “Smile. Your face is spoiling the party.”

Ibn Azziz did as he was ordered. Tried to, anyway.

“Look at him,” bellowed Oxley, bits of roast pigeon falling from his lips. “Fasting, as usual. To look at our emaciated brother you would think that food is an enemy.” More laughter. “I expect decorum from my ministers in public, but you are among friends here, Khaled. This is a party, a celebration of our growing power, all praise to Allah, and my chief deputy is grim as a Jew on Judgment Day.”

The table roared with glee, the other deputies pounding their fists on the table, setting the plates and crystal goblets bouncing. The upper echelon of the Black Robes had been eating and drinking all night. It was almost dawn now, and still they continued.

Ibn Azziz looked down the table, saw only weaklings and cowards in black silk robes, a dozen men grown fat and greedy, forgetting their mission. Only Tanner and Faisal hung their heads, embarrassed for him, their plates untouched, hands folded on their laps.

The leadership of the religious police was infested with hypocrites, men who chose the holy order for personal gain, lovers of luxury who hid their base desires under their robes and thought no one would see. Oxley was the worst offender. His public demeanor was acceptable, but in private he was a drunkard and a pederast. Little girls, little boys, it made no difference to Oxley, as long as there was innocence to be sucked out of them. His perversions were an abomination, but even worse, he was an appeaser to the moderates, eager to make bargains with the secular authorities. Oxley was the third mullah of the religious police in the last twenty years. The last time he had taken a real risk for his faith was when he’d murdered his predecessor.

Oxley waved off the acolytes serving them, picked up a wine bottle and poured into Ibn Azziz’s already full goblet, the red wine overflowing, staining the white tablecloth. “Drink up, Khaled. Drink, damn you.” He kept pouring, wine dripping off the table and onto Ibn Azziz’s robe. “I won’t have your pinched face mocking me.”

Ibn Azziz slowly reached for the goblet, took the tiniest of sips. He wanted to vomit.

Oxley slammed the wine bottle down on the table. “That’s better.” He raised his own glass, waited until the others joined him in the toast, then drained it in one long swallow. He wiped his mouth, belched, his chins jiggling. “There may be hope for you yet, my young skeleton.”

Ibn Azziz stared straight ahead. A pale ascetic with bulging eyes, he appeared sickly, but was filled with an unnatural strength, and an even more ferocious temper. His beard was sparse, his black hair tangled around his shoulders, uncombed and unwashed, for he rarely bathed, lest his own nudity lead to impure thoughts. Mocked when he’d first joined the order, he rose swiftly up the ranks. Picked by Oxley to be his enforcer, chosen over numerous older men, Ibn Azziz was Oxley’s righteous hammer. All eyes were downcast when he entered a room now. Oxley used Ibn Azziz to cow his political enemies and his own ambitious subordinates, but he had not counted on Ibn Azziz’s purity. Ibn Azziz was celibate. He owned nothing other than two robes and a copy of the Qur’an. He could neither be bought nor tempted. He considered moderates and moderns more dangerous than Zionists, the human rot in the perfect Islamic state.

Oxley peered at Ibn Azziz. “I don’t know why you aren’t enjoying yourself. Today’s Super Bowl was a great victory. The cameras caught our brothers whipping some moderns for their immodesty. The whole world saw our rigor.”

“The brothers barely drew blood,” said Ibn Azziz, wine dripping off his robe.

“Patience, Khaled.” Oxley turned to the rest of the table. “Our young brother wanted Ayatollah al-Azufa to lead the halftime prayers rather than the Ayatollah Majani.”

Ibn Azziz knew he should remain silent, but honesty was his only indulgence. “Ayatollah al-Azufa is a warrior of God. Majani is a glib entertainer that makes even the moderns feel devout.”

Oxley squinted, his face ruddy with drink. “Majani was my choice, as you well know.”

The table was silent now. Oxley’s two bodyguards leaned forward slightly, hands on their daggers. They stood on each side of him, a stocky, dark-skinned Yemenite and a taller American, a former Super Bowl standout for the San Francisco Falcons.

Oxley smacked Ibn Azziz on the shoulder, laughing, and the others joined in, glad to have the tension broken. “If I had allowed al-Azufa to lead the prayers, he would have railed against the president for a lack of piety and probably stoned to death a few adulterers for good measure. How do you think that would have looked for the cameras?”

Oxley beamed. “Khaled will not be happy until the Super Bowl is played with the heads of sinners instead of footballs.” A patronizing pat for Ibn Azziz. “You have much to learn, young brother. Subtlety is the highest form of politics.”

“We are charged with enforcing Allah’s law,” said Ibn Azziz, “not playing politics.”

“It will take politics as well as Allah to rid us of Redbeard,” barked Oxley.

Ibn Azziz lowered his head, shocked at the blasphemy.

“That is our goal, is it not?” lectured Oxley, as the other deputies muttered their agreement. “It is Redbeard who stands in our way.”

“Then let us unloose our whips against him.” Ibn Azziz looked around the table for support. “An hour ago, a State Security vehicle deliberately rammed a car of ours that was tracking it. Three brothers were badly injured.” He tapped the table with a fingertip. “This is no time for idleness and frivolity.”

“Our brother is eager for battle, but in his haste he would doom us all.” Oxley waved a turkey leg at Ibn Azziz, directing him to quiet down. “We must be stealthy,” Oxley said, warming to the sound of his own voice. “Just last week, because of my personal intervention, the imam of Redbeard’s own mosque issued a fatwa condemning the immorality of popular culture, calling modern music and fashion ‘acts of social terrorism as dangerous as any threat from the Bible Belt.’ It was a huge embarrassment to Redbeard.” Oxley gnawed at the turkey leg. “See, Khaled, this is the way to victory: tiny bites. We shall nibble away at Redbeard until there is nothing left of him.”

“Tiny bites…?” Ibn Azziz pushed his plate aside. “So, you ask us…the instruments of the Almighty, to be mice?”

Oxley threw down the turkey leg. “Are you too good to be a mouse, Khaled? Is that why you disobeyed me?”

The rest of the Black Robes shifted in their seats, and the bodyguards moved slightly away from Oxley.

“Khaled came to me last Friday.” said Oxley. “He was convinced that Redbeard’s niece had run away, convinced that she had been overcome by lust, eager to join a lover-”

“The slut didn’t show up to teach her class. My contact in the History Department said the chairman had not been previously notified. It was an opportunity for us.”

“An opportunity?” Oxley spread his arms wide. “The bitch has female troubles and Khaled gets cramps.”

The Black Robes howled with laugher. Even the bodyguards grinned.

“Our brother asked me for permission to send out men to find the niece,” said Oxley, no longer smiling. “What did I tell you, Khaled?”

“You said it was not worth the risk of bringing her to justice.”

“I said we are winning the battle. It’s not necessary to attack Redbeard directly,” said Oxley. “Not as long as he has the president’s trust.”

“The president is a hollow man,” said Ibn Azziz. “Without strength-”

“You asked permission, and I told you no. What did you do then? Please, Khaled, share with the brothers how you responded to an order from your mullah.”

Ice filled Ibn Azziz, packed his veins until no feeling was left. No pain, no pleasure, only a crystalline certainty.

“We’re waiting, Khaled,” said Oxley.

“I disobeyed my mullah, choosing instead to obey the dictates of Allah.”

“You confuse the buzzing in your ears with the voice of Allah,” sneered Oxley. “You are a learned cleric, Khaled. Tell us, what is the price of disobedience?”

Ibn Azziz stood up, bowed to Oxley, put his hands flat on the table.

“You have been a valued servant,” said Oxley. “Clever and resolute.” He beckoned to his guards. “I will reward you with a quick and painless death for your service. May you discover the joys of the flesh in the afterlife that you rejected in this world.”

The American bodyguard slid next to Ibn Azziz. “Don’t worry, brother,” he said softly, a big, blond killer from Wyoming, a faint twang still in his voice. “I’m gonna snap your neck so fast you’ll be rolling in perfumed virgins before you know you’re dead.”

Ibn Azziz was watching Oxley when he heard the American bodyguard cry out. A soft cry. A baby’s cry. Oxley’s eyes widened and Ibn Azziz smiled.

The Yemeni bodyguard eased the American to the floor, pulled the dagger out of his broad back.

Oxley tried to stand, but he was slowed by alcohol and surprise, and Ibn Azziz was behind him now, looping a linen napkin around his neck. Tightening it. Oxley tore at the napkin, his nails digging into Ibn Azziz.

Ibn Azziz paid no attention to Oxley’s desperate struggles. He just kept twisting the napkin. Oxley was twice his size, but soft with sin. Ibn Azziz was pure in heart, with the strength and clarity of the righteous. God will call you to account for all that you may reveal from your souls and all that you may conceal, he recited, tightening his grip.

Oxley gurgled, eyes bulging as he bucked wildly. His black silk robe billowed around him. Tears ran down his cheeks, dripped into his beard.

Ibn Azziz pressed Oxley down. And Allah said…Allah said to Iblis, the Devil, “The path which leads to Me is a straight one and you have no authority over My servants except the erring one…the erring ones who follow you. Hell is the promised place for them all.”

Oxley’s lips were purple as a ripe grape. He clawed at the tablecloth, sent dishes and glassware tumbling. His movements slowing…slowing…until he slumped forward.

Ibn Azziz released him and Oxley fell off the chair, lay dead on the floor. Ibn Azziz wiped his hands with the napkin, tossed it aside. He looked down the length of the table. The deputies stared at their plates, trembling, except for Tanner and Faisal, who fingered their prayer beads. Slowly, with great formality, Ibn Azziz took his seat at the head of the table. The Yemeni bodyguard took his place behind him. Ibn Azziz felt surrounded by a pure white light. He was twenty-six years old. There was much work to be done and he had barely gotten started.